Going Home
by V.Alchemista
Summary: Bilbo's thoughts as he nears the ends of his days. Set after LotR, but much of thoughts centre around The Hobbit so I put it in this category. Rated just to be safe. Terrible at summaries-sorry!


"Uncle, you know this is the last one? There'll be no more ships to the Grey Havens after this—there'll be no elves after this," Frodo asked, weariness and desperation mixing in his voice in such a terrible way that Biblo ached for him. He looked to the lad, smiling in general apology and regret as he had been doing for some time now with him. Ever since Frodo heard his uncle would not be joining them he had been rather distressed, and this was just one of the many talks they had already had on the subject. But Bilbo was finally starting to see the acceptance in his features now (if begrudgingly so), and he hoped this one be the last of them as he studied the boy (though he supposed he could hardly be thought of as a boy any longer).

He looked tired, weary in a way Bilbo knew all too well and at the same time didn't have the first inkling of. He still looked so much like the little fauntling that had come to live with him after his parents' untimely demise, the Ring doing nothing but perpetuate this youngness, so much that it almost physically hurt. But those eyes, those blue eyes that had already been far too old looked positively ancient now in his still youthful face. Biblo felt a pang in his chest as he thought about it, remembering how his own had changed after his adventure. But for all the grief, the long-suffering grief that had barely quelled through the ages, his adventure had still been far kinder than Frodo's. Because even with all that grief, he had found such an unbridled joy, had found such an intense happiness (no matter how brief it had been), that it had all been worth it.

But Frodo.

Poor dear Frodo had found nothing but hardship and toil and suffering, with no joy to compensate, no happiness to taper the jagged edges of his grief. Bilbo had seen him on his way back to Hobbiton after the whole affair, had seen the haunted look in his face and the desperate longing when anyone had mentioned the Shire.

The look had not disappeared in all the years Bilbo had last seen the lad.

He understood, more than any other. After he had returned from the Lonely Mountain, there had been a sense of relief as he had stepped through the familiar, green painted door, had looked upon all his old, familiar things. That relief and peace had been short lived. For better or worse, Bilbo had come back a changed hobbit—and for better or worse that change had left him dissatisfied with the place he had called home once.

It had been the same for Frodo—that much Bilbo had gathered from the letters. The Shire was no longer home to Frodo, and Bilbo had to struggle to remember that bright-eyed youth whose heart had been one with the tilled earth and sloping hills. It was not as if Frodo did not still love the Shire deeply, for he did. Rather, he had seen too much, suffered through too much, to reconcile himself with his peaceful homeland ever again. It was no surprise really, why Frodo had decided to leave then—it was not the same for him.

"I don't understand, Uncle," and even after all these years Bilbo could not help the images of golden hair and dark, mischievous eyes that flashed in his mind that the title brought.

Bilbo supposed he wouldn't, and really, he had never tried to explain it to Frodo, had never tried to broach the subject. Oh, of course he had told tales of his adventure, spun stories of spiders and goblins and orcs and heroes that beat them all—they had been stories too good _not_ to tell. But he had not delved deep, had never talked about the exhaustion, and the frustration that came with traveling for so long, had stayed away from the weariness and fear that came with battle and the soul-crushing weight that came after and one realized how many had fallen. And who.

Hadn't said how much of that lingers and lasts even when you've left all of it behind. Part of him regrets that he never did, had never hinted that adventures could be anything less than glorious fun and triumph—perhaps if he had, Frodo might've been better prepared.

"Well, he won't be waiting at the Grey Havens now will he lad?"

Frodo looked more confused at the answer, but didn't press the issue further; which was fine by Bilbo—he had no intentions of laying everything plain now after all these years. "So, you're going back then?"

Bilbo just smiled in general answer. He was no fool; he knew very well Mahâl had no place for a Hobbit inside his halls—he was good and well beyond Bilbo's reach. They all were (and Bilbo's mind shirked away from the still relatively new loss Ori and Balin, and of what Gandalf and Frodo had been able to tell him of their fates when they had returned). No, he certainly could not join them, but it had been too long since he had looked upon them, even if all that was left of them was stone.

When he had first returned home, the grief had still been too near for a long while after, too sharp and painful that the mere idea of having to be confronted with their deaths again broke him all over again. The rest of the Company, whenever their paths had found them to his doorstep again, had never said anything about his absence, and he never felt the need to explain. He knew they all understood, knew from their heavy, sombre looks that would sometimes creep on their faces unawares.

Over the years, the pain had lessened, and sometimes he even thought about going back, but a second later came the pain again and with it the idea fled. And then Frodo had come along. Dear, sweet Frodo, who had livened his halls again (though his merriment had been far more subdued than other Hobbit children his age, and understandably so). The little lad had helped further with the pain, his light laughter and wide, curious eyes keeping the worst at bay until it had tempered down into a constant, dull ache; always there of course (he would never be without it), but dull enough so he could breathe again.

And more than that, he had provided another excuse.

How could he make that long, dangerous road when he had a little one depending on him?

The others had loved Frodo, when they had finally met him, loved his youthful energy (in his own subdued way) and his quick wit that even when he was younger was so apparent, loved him as much as they could stand to. He saw they way they had looked at him sometimes, that hollowed, pained look that made them all appear so much older, and he knew they were thinking of two other youths, two other points of vitality that had been like the sun and air itself until they had been cruelly chopped down far before their time. But all the same, they had loved Frodo.

And when Frodo finally grew old, old enough that Bilbo could finally in good conscious leave—he left. He hadn't lied to Gandalf when he said he had wanted to see mountains again. The want—the _need_—had been growing in him for some time, to lay eyes upon it and what lay beneath it. He wanted to walk through Mirkwood now that it had been cleaned of its sickness, wanted to see all of what became of Dale and Erebor. He wondered how Bard was—wondered what had become of the surly leader (the dwarves's descriptions had left a lot to be desired). And of Thranduil too (though where he could not get any of the others to speak a word of the elf king, the elves he could find traversing the forests were more than happy to supply him with answers). And maybe pass by Beorn as well and see how the gentle man and been going on. What he hadn't counted on the was the sheer, utter exhaustion that befell him as he tried to make his way back to everyone. He had told Gandalf, before he had left, that we was beginning to feel thin, stretched and weary in a way he hadn't thought previously possible. But that was slight compared to the exhaustion that settled into him shortly after leaving Hobbiton once more.

It had been a trying journey, in a far different way than it had been the first time. He made a good portion of it alone, the rest of the time falling in line with whatever other traveling group that happened to be passing his way—man, elf, and dwarf alike. And by the time he had reached Rivendell, he had been just _so tired_. And soon one week of rest had stretched into two, which had stretched into three, which had stretched into months, until months bled into a year and years became decades. He hadn't lied all those years ago when he had said he could've gladly spent the rest of his days in Rivendell. At least, if the image of the Lonely Mountain was not constantly looming in his thoughts and all it represented.

And so finally, he was going. It seemed a good a time as any, or rather it seemed the last chance he was likely to get. Middle Earth was changing, and most of what he knew of the world was slowly leaving it. The age of men Gandalf had called it, and the hobbit struggled to imagine a Middle Earth without the wizened wizard wondering about this way and that, for Gandalf seemed as old and the world itself to Bilbo (and he wondered idely what truth lay in that thought). So yes, now was the time to go if ever there was a time.

Briefly, Bilbo felt a flash of disappointment that Frodo would not be coming with him—he had always wanted the lad to lay eyes upon it, if only once. Why, when he was younger he had even entertained thoughts of traveling the exact route with the lad (or at least somewhat exact—he had no intention to ever set foot in the Goblin Kingdom ever again) and perhaps Gandalf as well, if he were up to it. Frodo had certainly had the idea enough when he was but a fauntling, often spending hours planning the imagined journey and all the supplies they were likely to need. Bilbo chuckled at the memories, earning a soft (if not a somewhat perplexed) smile from Frodo.

But no, Frodo and Gandalf would be heading out on a journey of their own, their very last, and even though Bilbo would miss the two dearly, it was not where his heart lay. No, his heart lay buried miles beneath the highest mountain, entombed with those he had lost decades ago.

And as he thought his mind could not help but bring forth the memory of work-worn hands and broad (if bent) shoulders that sat below raven, wild locks. His breath hitched as he thought of _him_, after all these years still not able to remember him without the world slipping and spinning around him, if only for a moment. It was not like with the boys, whose deaths brought out that sharp bitterness and lamentation that came when ones so young were stolen away from the world (and selfishly, Bilbo thought more so for these two). It was not as if that were the only reason he missed them, for surely he had begun to slowly love them until they were as much family and kin as he thought of Frodo now. But there was that special twinge of bitterness, and inherent righteous rage for them being as young as they were. It was easier to think of them though—of their easy smiles, and their secret language no one could ever make head nor tails of. It was easier, generally, to remember their playfulness and joy. And Bilbo's mind shirked away from the one time he had seen them without their general roguishness and infectious joviality. That had been the one mercy afforded to those boys really, Bilbo thought, that they had fallen together as they had—neither one having to tolerate the separation of the other. They entered and left this world together, and in a way it was proper for them (and Bilbo could feel his throat constrict at the memory of them laying beside each other, the length of their bodies pressing firmly into the other, their hair entangled in each others as if even that part of them was loath to be apart). But even for all that, it was easier to think of them.

With _him _however… It always took a moment for Bilbo to right himself after he began thinking of him, and he always ached long after he had stopped. When he was younger he had thought he was better off not thinking about the dwarf at all for as much trouble it caused him. But his mind was rather disinclined to stay too far away from him and every so often circled back to him like an addiction. Once he got through the initial loss of equilibrium, he was able to think (quite happily) of dark eyes, and a deep laugh (as rare as it had been for him to hear it), was able to laugh and smile fondly of a stubbornness that put stone to shame. And at some point, trapped up in all the memories (good and bad, though none of them really were bad for they at least held _him_ in those memories) he would remember he was dead. And then it was almost like losing him all over again.

But it was time now to see him again, for if he didn't leave now, Bilbo thought he might never get the chance again. Frodo had offered that they wait on him, and though the offer was made out of some desperation, he knew they would all delay for him if he asked it. But he had no intention of sailing off with them. As he packed, he nearly laughed at the notion—had the offer been made to him when he was younger (before he grew a distaste for adventure) he would've been all too happy to accept. But, like he said, he was a changed hobbit, and the thought of grey shores did nothing for him now (except to offer him some measure of peace knowing that Frodo was heading for them). Even though he knew Mahâl would not accept him, knew he had no way to reach those he had loved and lost, he at least wanted to sleep near them.

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><p><strong>So there it is! As always, reviews, comments, critiques are more than welcome—hope y'all enjoyed<strong>


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